


Wish I Were Blind

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Comeplay, Confusion, Dirty Talk, Doc and other guys is mentioned and Lightning thinks about it a lot, Excessive Drinking, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, Lightning is so stupid in this fic, M/M, Miscommunication, but it doesn't happen explicitly in the fic, even stupider than usual, so if you can't read about puke beware, to the point of vomming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Lightning mistakes good old fashioned jealousy for homophobia





	Wish I Were Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This is apparently a trope a lot of people do because of some story on reddit about a guy who thought he was being a homophobe because he hated when his room mate brought home dudes? But he was actually just in love with him. I didn't know about the trope before I started this but I was informed and it's a cute story, go read it. 
> 
> Thank you Jen AS ALWAYS for editing why messy drafts, I love you <3 
> 
> enjoy everyone!

They’re in San Francisco when Lightning realizes, with horror, that he might be sort of homophobic. 

It’s bad timing because he’s sharing a hotel room with his gay crew chief in the fucking gay capital of California during a pre-Grand Prix summer training intensive. He _really_ doesn’t want to be having a fucking crisis when he _should_ be pouring all his energy into getting faster, making the most out of this fancy new training facility. 

Instead, he’s drinking the entire minibar and crying himself to sleep while Doc _spends the night_ _with some guy_ like a fucking sugar daddy. Try as he fucking might to _not care_ what Doc does in his offtime (Why should he care? When did he turn into a bigot? Why the _hell_ should it bother him that Doc is probably getting his dick sucked by some tall, sexy go-go dancer covered in glitter while Lightning nearly throws up his third tiny bottle of Titos into the sink as he thinks about it?), it turns out he actually _does_ care. He cares _a lot._ He cares so much that he’s sick-drunk and pacing and questioning his entire self-concept over it. He’s _fraying_ at the seams. 

Lightning knows he’s got a lot of ugly shit to unlearn. Like, before he came to Radiator Springs, he was a selfish prick, and he _knows_ it. He’s aware that no matter how hard he’s working on being a better guy, it’s a _process,_ it’s never really _over._ He’s not an absolute idiot. He just _thought,_ genuinely, that homophobia was, like, at the bottom of his theoretical list of biases to tackle head on. 

After all, his entire pit crew is gay. Every single one of them. It’s not like Lightning has a problem with surrounding himself in gay guys. Luigi and Guido are staying in the room to his and Doc’s left, Sarge and Fillmore on the other side of them, and they’re probably all having gay old-man sex in their respective rooms _right now._ For some reason, thinking about them cuddling or kissing or even _banging_ isn’t upsetting to Lightning, beyond the baseline discomfort any normal person feels when they accidentally think about, like, their _dads_ banging. He's not _gut-level_ disgusted the way he is _now_ as he ransacks the minibar fridge for something stronger than beer, trying not to think about but instead managing to _positively obsess over_ the idea of Doc fucking whatever guys he’s fucking right now. 

Lightning has no idea why his apparent homophobia is specific to Doc, but it is. And he feels _horrible_ about it because letting Doc down is pretty much the worst thing he can think of, so he’s just sort of _spiraling._

_—-_

It happens like this: after training concludes and he scarfs down a quick pre-dinner protein bar, Lightning showers the track-sweat and grit off, thinking about how much he can’t _wait_ to put on some comfortable sweatpants, collapse onto Doc’s bed, and find a comedy special or a Formula 1 race for them to watch together over some room service. Instead, when he comes out with his towel tucked around his waist, Doc is fully dressed and combing his hair in front of the mirror beside the TV. “What are you doing?” Lightning asks, furrowing his brow. “You’re not going _out_ somewhere, are you? We still have beer, and I can order food in.” 

“I’m meeting up with someone,” Doc answers without looking up, pocketing his wallet and key card. “Might be late, might not be back at all, but I’ll meet you at the training center come morning if that’s the case.” 

“Wait, _what?!”_ Lightning yelps incredulously, half sure that this is a joke. “Meeting up with someone, like, someone you _know_? Like, you have a _friend_ out here?” 

“I don't know him, not yet. We’ll see how it goes,” Doc mumbles, gaze carefully averted. 

Dread, sudden and powerful, spikes through Lightning’s gut in an unexpected wave. A _date._ This is a date. Doc’s in San Francisco, and he's taking a guy out because why the fuck would a good-looking single gay guy with a free Saturday night in San Francisco _not_ go on a date? Lightning feels stupid, but that’s drowned out by the disgust, which is roiling so hard in his stomach that it’s impossible to ignore, as desperately as he wants to. He doesn’t _want to be_ homophobic, he _doesn’t want_ to be the sort of person who freaks out over the idea of a man going on a _date_ with another man, especially Doc, who is his favorite person. So he swallows hard, shakes his head, and pushes through it. “Oh, shit. Okay, yeah, a date. Good for you.” 

“Well,” Doc sighs, shrugging on a jacket. “Wouldn’t call it a _date_ , necessarily. A meetup with a stranger looking for the same thing...bet you can guess what _that_ is.” 

The implication hangs quiet but undeniable between them. 

_A booty call._ This is a _sex date._ The image of a nice dinner down by the pier with another handsome silver fox gives way to a seething, seedy club interior, rainbows on the walls, flesh shiny and pulsing. Lightning has to bite back bile, hands suddenly so sweaty, knees weak. He sits down on the edge of his bed and wipes his clammy palms on his towel. “A stranger…isn’t that _dangerous_?” he asks, hating himself the second the words comes out, how his voice is so _patronizing,_ like he, of all people, actually has the _right_ to patronize _Doc_.

Doc straightup laughs at him. “Kid, I’ve been doing this a long time now, think I’ll be okay.” He turns around, eye contact blue and blazing for a moment as he regards Lightning before nodding goodbye. “Thanks for the concern, though. Don't wait up for me.” 

Then he’s out the door, and Lightning is forced to wonder why in the hell he feels like the world is ending, washing away in a tide of panic. 

—-

The obvious answer is that he’s clearly not done enough interrogation of his deep-seated and latent homophobia. Just because he’s fine with Guido and Luigi being attached at the hip or Sarge and Fillmore’s incessant (but fond) married bickering or even sharing a room with _Doc_ (as long as he’s single and _not_ fucking strange men in San Francisco, apparently), it doesn’t mean he’s, like, entirely _free of prejudice._ Of course he's not, he’s a straight guy, and no matter how hard he’s worked to peel back layer after layer of toxic shit, there’s always going to be more to unpack. 

It just sucks that _this moment right here_ is when it all comes to an inconvenient head. 

The thing is, whenever he has an identity crisis or any pressing sort of _life_ problem that requires growing pains or tough love or guidance, _Doc_ is the onewho helps him through it. _Doc_ is the one who tells him to pull it together or assures him it’s going to be okay or provides him with some vaguely worded and infuriatingly obtuse advice that ends up changing his entire life or whatever. Doc is the person he turns to whenever he’s in distress, and he always _fixes things_ or at least provides Lightning with the tools to fix it himself. But Doc isn’t _here_ right now. He’s fucking, or maybe even _getting fucked by_ , some San Franciscan playboy. Which is, like, totally his right. Lightning is _fully_ aware of how deeply unfair it is for him to have any feelings or opinions about this _at all._

And _yet_ he has them. Bucketloads of them, overflowing as he douses them in alcohol, refusing to be drowned. He _hates_ the idea of Doc messing around with guys, and he _cannot for the life of him_ figure out _why._ Except for the fact that he’s clearly a bad person. 

Defeated, he curls up in bed with a beer, hating the frustrated prickle of tears behind his eyes. They burn as he rubs at them, so many disconnected, confused feelings bubbling up in his chest. He’s _worried_ about Doc, keeps thinking about him, like, getting beat up or stopped by the cops for getting blown in an alley, even though he _knows_ Doc would never get caught up in something so reckless, that he’s a fucking adult who’s been doing this for a long time, that he can take care of himself. Still, Lightning can’t help but entertain all these drunken worst-case scenarios. 

Somehow, the heavier his eyes get, the more he deteriorates into aimless, self-destructive thoughts about what _sort_ of guy Doc would want to go on a sex date with, even though it’s, like, the _last_ thing he wants to think about. But he _can’t help it,_ he’s drunk and apparently _wants_ to make himself sicker, wants to test the depth of his shameful bigotry or something. So he thinks about the guy Doc’s with, how he’s probably feeling the scratchy brush of Doc’s mustache on his upper lip, against the pulse of his neck, right fucking _now_. He’s probably really good-looking; Doc’s good-looking, and Lightning’s always thought that he didn’t already have a boyfriend because he was presumably extremely picky, with refined tastes. Mr. San Francisco probably feels super lucky to be on a sex date with a guy like Doc, who is likely _very_ good at fucking, despite Lightning’s incredible efforts to not wonder about such a thing. Doc is seventy-one, which means he has spent _years_ honing his gay sex experience. He’s probably a gay sex expert. This guy is probably coming into his mouth right now, mind blown to ribbons of static, his life forever altered by the greatest dirt racer in the world turned small-town doctor. He probably doesn’t even _know_ Doc is the greatest dirt racer in the world. A waste of come but coming nonetheless. 

Lightning’s stomach plunges at the thought, and he rolls over, puking into the wastepaper basket that he managed to drag to the side of his bed the minute he admitted to himself it was going to be _that_ sort of night. His eyes burn as he retches, one catharsis bringing the other as he finally chokes out a proper sob. 

Even though Doc _told_ him he wouldn't be coming back tonight, Lighting jumps at every sound, lurching out of a hazy sleep to check for him at the door of their room in case he changed his mind. He’s ashamed at the thought of Doc finding him like this, well on his way to passing out next to a hotel trashcan of puke, but he thinks it would be worth the shame to have Doc _back,_ to stop worrying, obsessing, feeling awful and then feeling awful about _himself_ for feeling awful in the first place. 

Eventually he drifts off, mind snagged in self-deprecating, repulsed feedback loops over the idea of Doc’s lips soft against the pulse tucked under some stranger’s jaw, even if his mustache would bristle, his strong hands braced against a lower back, spread wide and clutching over biceps, everything balanced precariously between rough and tender. 

—-

Doc’s still not there in the morning, and Lighting tries hard not to care as he holds his nose and shamefully dumps the room’s trashcan out into the toilet before rinsing it, tossing the empty minibar bottles in the lobby’s trashcan to destroy all evidence of his _episode_ last night. He feels like shit as he takes a cab to the training center, head pounding spectacularly and chest tight with each breath, but he blames it on the hangover, not the whole existential realization that he’s actually a shitty friend and a homophobic asshole who can’t handle the idea of Doc getting laid. 

It’s so stupid. Doc _deserves_ to get laid. His sex life is none of Lightning’s business, so Lightning tries to forget about it all together, chugging half a bottle of water before dumping the rest over his head in the bathroom, refusing to look at his haggard, pathetic reflection or slow his steps as he stalks out to the track. 

before he can even crawl into the roll cage and take a warm-up spin, he sees Doc standing by the car with two disposable styrofoam cups of coffee, and he freezes. He’s suddenly, profoundly self-conscious, worried that he smells like booze, worried that his eyes are still red and puffy, worried that the words _insecure homophobic jerk_ are plastered across his face in blood like a fucking scarlet letter. “You got here on time without me kicking your ass out of bed, m’shocked,” Doc tells him, expression unreadable behind his aviators as he hands Lightning one of the coffees. “Brought you caffeine.” 

“Did you—,” Lightning stops, throat tight. He chokes down a too-hot mouthful of coffee, burning his tongue. “How did your not-date go?” he manages to get out without his voice shaking too much. 

“Eh,” Doc shrugs as he shoves his hand into his pocket and presses the rim of his own coffee to his bottom lip before turning to the track. The silver hair of his mustache rustles against the plastic lid as he takes a sip, and Lightning’s gut lurches spectacularly, the memory of vodka burning acidic in his throat so suddenly at the forefront of his mind that he hacks, spits on the cement. “You okay?” Doc asks. 

“Yeah, sorry, burnt myself...coffee’s hot,” Lightning half-lies, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, heart racing. His head aches, his whole body feels shivery and weird, and he can’t _stand_ the idea of Doc touching him at the same time he _desperately_ wants to touch Doc to prove to himself that he still _can,_ that their rapport isn't _forever_ damaged by his fucking _problem._ So he reaches out, slaps Doc lightly on the arm. “Hot like last night hopefully was for you,” he grinds out, waggling his eyebrows, forcing a smile. Doc refuses to look at him as he says it, which is probably for the better because he strongly doubts he sells it _at all._

 _“_ Quit,” he says, shaking his head. “Now go get in the car, will you.” 

Lightning chugs some more coffee and does as he’s told, palm still tingling. He wipes it on his pants like it’s contaminated and _hates_ himself for it. 

—-

He races like absolute shit, practice times significantly slower than they’ve been over the _entire intensive._ His reflexes are dulled, his arms weak, and he nearly loses control around the banking more than once before deciding it’s just _not_ gonna happen today. To add insult to injury, he has to tear down the window netting and yank off his helmet in time to puke water out the window when he rolls into the pit to tell everyone. It’s embarrassing, and he tries to convince them it’s because he’s come down with the flu, which is even more embarrassing. Luigi is the only one who believes him. 

“Ah, the flu...that’s what we used to call it, too,” Fillmore jokes, elbowing Sarge in the side. “The flu…a headache…just a little _under the weather.”_

 _“_ You smell like a distillery,” Sarge tells Lightning, point-blank.

Guido says something in Italian while making a drinking motion, and Luigi _finally_ catches on, letting out a scandalized gasp. 

Lightning feels like he’s on fucking _trial,_ everyone watching him while he spits foam out the window, hands trembling as their eyes bore in to him. Doc is the only one who hasn’t said anything, and that’s somehow worse than being scolded in front of the rest of the crew. He imagines his steely blue glare, arms crossed over his broad chest, and retches again. “Okay, okay, I drank too much last night. _Someone_ wasn't around to cut me off,” he grumbles, even though it just makes him feel worse about himself because this isn’t _Doc’s_ fault. The fact that he’s given himself the worst hangover he’s had since he was twenty-two is _no one’s_ fault but his own. 

“Oh, is that my job, too? Deciding when it’s last call? Didn’t realize you hired me as a babysitter _and_ a crew chief,” Doc says evenly, walking over and bracing his arms on the window so that he can lean inside the car. Lightning jumps, nearly hitting his head on the roll cage as Doc lays a cool hand on his brow, thumbing sweaty hair from his eyes. But he pushes into the touch, probably overcompensating for how much he _hates_ the idea that Doc’s hands were probably combing through some other guy’s hair last night, reaching between another guy’s thighs. He fights a dry heave and whimpers instead. 

“Do I feel feverish? Maybe I really _do_ have the flu,” he whines, and Doc sighs, letting his hand drop. 

“No matter what’s got you sick, you’re sick. Can’t race like this, can’t even practice, so come on out of there, and I’ll drive you back to the hotel.” 

His voice is a comforting rumble, but Lightning can’t even take solace in it the way he usually does because he can’t stop thinking about it against the shell of some other man’s ear, hot against the inside of another man’s thigh. “ _Fuck,”_ he groans, rubbing his clammy face with his hands, wishing he would just _stop._ “This is such crap.” 

“We’ll talk about it. S’okay,” Doc says, patting him on the shoulder. 

Lightning gets the distinct impression that they’re gonna talk about more than just his hangover. That Doc can see through him, past his ribs into the ugly twisted heap of metal he’s hiding inside. 

——

He feels a little better after a shower and a decent meal. Doc brings him a sandwich and watches him eat it from the couch, head cocked thoughtfully. “You’re staring,” Lightning observes through a full mouth, swallowing messily and chasing it with water. He expects a snarky, biting comment from Doc, but instead, he tears his eyes away and stares out the window, sighing. 

“Just thinking,” he says. A long, tense moment passes, Lightning’s nervous chewing the only sound before Doc eventually adds, “This isn’t my first rodeo, kid. I've seen it before...you don’t have to make up some bullshit about how _supportive_ you are about my lifestyle, but you just don’t want to _know_ about it. I’ve heard every story in the book.” 

Lightning’s heart sinks. “Look,” he says quietly, crossing his legs under him in the bed to brush crumbs from the sheets, needing something for his hands to do. “I’m so sorry and _so_ ,like…disappointed in myself. I thought I was better than this, I _want_ to be better than this, so m’working on it.” 

Doc shakes his head. “This was the first time it was a real thing for you instead of a theoretical one...I caught you off guard, left you on your own to think too much about it. M’sorry, too.” 

“No, please don’t be sorry, Doc. Fuck, _I’m_ sorry, I feel horrible. There’s literally no fucking reason for me to have freaked out, you did _nothing_ wrong, you’re just living your _life._ I’m over it now,” Lightning lies. He’s definitely sorry, he definitely feels horrible, but as desperately as he wants to be, he’s _not_ over it. He still feels powerfully sick when he thinks of Doc’s sex date, his scalp still gets hot and prickly, his throat tight. All he can _do,_ though, is power through his visceral reaction and try to act normal. He can’t entertain an unwarranted reaction. “I’m so grateful to have you in my life,” he admits, frowning at his own lap. “You put up with a lot from me, and I just…just really want you to know how much I appreciate it.” 

Doc sighs, stands up, walks to the bed, and collects Lightning’s sandwich trash as he shakes his head. “Well,” he says, balling it up and tossing it. “You keep listening and learning and winning races makes it all worth it...or I hope it does. I’d like for the investment to pay off,” he tacks the last bit on with a wry, self-deprecating smile, and something melts in Lightning’s chest, cracks him. Doc’s probably had a lot of friends turn on him over the years, freeze him out, _leave him,_ all because of the way he is, which he can’t control and shouldn't _have to._ It’s so fucking unfair, to think that some ungrateful man would turn down being close to someone as smart and wise and knowledgable and _kind_ as Doc, all because of what he gets up to behind locked doors. It makes Lightning feel hot all over, furious, _helpless._ It makes his stomach turn in a _different_ way, a defensive way, so he vows in this moment that he’s gonna get over whatever the fuck this is that’s got him acting like a prick, he’s gonna set aside his bullshit, he’s gonna be _better._ He has to. He owes it to himself but also to _Doc_ , who’s given him so fucking much. 

Before he can think too much about it, he hops off the bed and strides across the hotel room, throwing his arms around Doc’s neck, pulling him close so that his own cheek thuds against his shoulder. Doc doesn’t hug back at first, just goes rigid and still. “I think they call this _overcompensation,_ kid.” 

“Don’t care,” Lightning grumbles, squeezing harder. “Love you, old man, and you need to know it.” 

Doc’s breath huffs out of him in a wordless sound, and he struggles minimally before eventually relenting, curling his arms around Lightning’s lower back and holding him for a moment. “I’ll try and remember that,” he murmurs, voice muffled because his mouth is pressed to Lightning’s hair, which feels like a small triumph. Satisfied, Lightning pulls away. “Wanna find something to watch?” 

“Sure,” Doc says, clearing his throat and letting go to rub his palms together. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon lounging on the bed, watching F1, and talking a whole lot of shit. When night falls, Lightning orders them Thai takeout, and they eat together on the windowsill overlooking the city, with all its winding streets looking like a filigree of veins beneath them. Lightning’s never really _been_ to San Francisco, so he asks Doc about it and how it got to be so gay and stuff, and Doc tells him, gaze always fixed with longing on some faraway point, like he’s imagining a life he wish he’d led. It makes Lightning sort of sad, but he doesn't feel an _ounce_ of the same furious nausea, the same panic. Last night feels like a memory, and he wonders if it was some weird, one-off issue that will never come up again. After all, he’s talking with Doc right now about gay stuff and doesn’t feel weird. He’s sitting close enough to him that their knees occasionally brush, their hands touch as they reach for the bottle of sparkling water they’re sharing. Lightning is _aware_ of it all: the touch, the proximity, the subject matter, the way his mouth is occupying the same space that Doc’s was only moments before each time he swigs from the green glass neck of the San Pellegrino. But none of it _bothers_ him. It’s the same as it always is, Doc making him feel safe and warm. 

As the sun sets orange-pink like sherbet along the San Francisco skyline, Lightning lets himself believe that last night was a freak accident born of shock, that he isn't _actually_ homophobic. He doesn't _actually_ care who Doc fucks. He supports it. 

—-

As it turns out, this is a bit premature. 

Lightning’s back on the track early the next morning, determined to stay late and make up for the valuable time he lost yesterday. He sends the rest of the crew home around 4 and lets them know he won’t be back to the hotel until late before hitting the track again. And he _means_ it, but by the time 7 pm rolls around, his eyes are strained and he’s satisfied with his time and the hours he's clocked, but most of all, he's fucking _hungry,_ so he decides to hang it up and head back earlier than intended. 

 

It doesn't even _occur to him_ to warn Doc. He’s not used to him _doing_ things that one could walk in on, not used to him having a social life separate from his own. Lightning drops in at his house uninvited all the time, shows up on his doorstep with food or beer or a racing documentary a few times a week, _more_ back when he and Sally first broke up and Mater was so sad about it that Lightning didn't feel comfortable going to him for advice. 

So he’s not expecting to find Doc entertaining company. 

He’s _certainly_ not expecting to find him kissing some _man_ on the couch, hands under his neon tank-top. 

Lightning just keys open the door, totally unaware, and two heads pop up frantically from the couch, cursing, and his whole fucking world falls apart _again._

 _“_ Oh, _fuck,_ Jesus,” he yelps, covering his eyes as he blindly backs up, managing to knock over one of those hotel suitcase-holder things and an entire ice bucket full of ice. The cube explode out onto the carpet, obstacles for him to slip on as he frantically tries to escape, to _not look_ at whatever’s happening by the couch. He doesn’t want to know if they were doing more than kissing, he does _not_ want to know if this guy has to get his clothes back on, if Doc’s lips are swollen, his pupils blown. He doesn't want to know because he’ll throw up again, he’ll fall to pieces, collapse on the carpet amid the ice. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps, spinning and nearly falling over as he trips on his own strewn PJs from this morning. “Fuck, I’ll just...I’ll just leave.”

The other guy, who he’s trying _hard_ not to look at (but seems to be around Lightning’s age, with a similar, slight build) beats him to the door. “Nah, I’ll go,” he says, shouldering his way past Lightning and out the door. “Thanks, maybe I’ll hear from you,” he shoots across the room to Doc, and then he’s gone, leaving them both alone, facing each other across a vast divide of spilled ice melting into the carpet. 

“You said you were coming back late,” Doc says after a moment, folding his arms, leaning against the wall nonchalantly. “I clearly took that to mean later than this.”

“What the fuck,” Lightning sputters, shaking his head as he wildly paces the room, tugging fistfuls of his sweaty hair. “ _Yeah,_ I said that, but I didn’t think you’d bring someone _back,_ and I thought...well, even if you _did,_ you wouldn’t bring your new _boyfriend_ back to _fuck him_ in the _room_ we’re sharing!” he spits out, the words ripping from his chest with such force that they snag, busting out of him hard enough that he feels like his throat is bleeding. He feels fucking crazy, like his skin is crawling, he cannot fucking _believe_ Doc would do something like this, violate the _space they share_ together like this. 

“Far from a boyfriend,” Doc scoffs. “Met him an hour before you came in. Don’t be dramatic.” 

This news just makes Lightning feel _more_ dramatic, though. “Wait, _what,_ this is...this is a different _guy_? Than the one from the other night?” 

“Mmhm,” Doc nods, oddly, _infuriatingly_ calm. Like this _isn’t_ life-ruining sort of information. “Guy from the other night didn’t work out.” 

“What the _fuck,”_ Lightning says again, scrubbing his hands over his flushed face. “What, so you just...found a new one? Like, two guys in three days?” 

Doc shrugs defensively, blue eyes flashing. “You have a problem with that? Or, more to the point, would you have a problem with that if they were girls?” 

Lightning wants to scream _yes._ He’s pretty sure he _would,_ in fact, take issue with Doc going on a date with one girl and bringing home a different girl two nights later to kiss on their shared couch. The idea still turns his stomach, but maybe it’s because of, like, the implications of a man Doc’s age with a girl _his_ age. It’s too improbable to matter anyway, Doc is _gay,_ really gay. “I don't know!” he yells instead, guts gathering, dropping, crawling. “I just, like...two different guys, so close together? That doesn't sound like _you,_ man, that's all. Guess I just want to know, is everything okay?” 

Doc scoffs again. “Is it? Like you’re supposed to know what sounds like _me_ on a weekend in San Francisco, like you _would_ know. You don't know _shit,_ boy.” 

And that just makes Lightning mad, makes his skin prickle as he squares up, heart pounding in his chest. “Just! Okay, I _thought_ …,”he spits out messily, before the words die confused in his throat. As he comes up with new ones, Doc cuts him off. 

“You _thought?_ You don’t know how I live, how I’ve _lived._ We live in a small town, and Radiator Springs has no fucking options for a man like me. I don’t get to come out to cities like this that often, so I do what I do. Don’t see how it concerns you one fucking bit, rookie.” 

Lighting knows, he _knows_ that this concerns him zero percent, that he shouldn’t care at all what Doc does, _who_ he does. But the conflict still rises in his chest, sharp and sudden like bile, so he shoots it down, silences it. “It doesn’t, okay?! It doesn’t concern me at all, and m’just…m’just gonna get myself my own hotel room so you can bring back however many guys you wanna fuck. You know, since it doesn’t concern me,” he sneers, stumbling backward into his suitcase, which has been upended. Doc watches him, like he’s not sure he’s _actually_ gonna leave, which of course just makes Lightning want to leave even _more._ He stuffs his things into the suitcase and stomps into the bathroom to grab his toothpaste, his two-in-one body wash. 

“What’re you doing?” Doc asks, following him, standing there in the doorframe of the bathroom so that Lightning has to _touch_ him when he storms past, elbow knocking against Doc’s. “C’mon, you're not gonna—”

“Yeah, I will! It’s not...it’s not a _thing,_ don’t make it into a thing, okay? It’s just...m’just giving you the space you want, that you need but won’t ask for,” he snaps, shouldering his duffle and letting himself out the door. “I’ll be down the hall,” he says, before he lets the lock snap shut behind him. 

And it’s stupid, it makes no _sense,_ but part of him wants Doc to _chase him,_ to knock some sense back into him. _Show me_ , he thinks, even though he doesn't know that means, it’s threaded into so many messy self-loathing thoughts, an incomprehensible tapestry. Still, as he gets himself a separate room and settles into it, flops onto the bed and flips on the TV, he longs for it. For Doc coming and finding him, asking him what the fuck he’s doing and _why,_ grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him somewhere. 

—-

Lightning can’t sleep. He tries _so hard,_ so many _times,_ but it’s just not coming. He can’t stop obsessing over Doc’s face, the way it looked when he left: not shocked or upset but _resigned_ , like he knew _exactly_ where Lightning was going, like he was replicating every other experience Doc has ever had trying to befriend straight men. Like he was fulfilling some pitifully low expectation, falling into line. 

He just wants to run back. Stumble down the hall and throw himself at Doc, fit his body into the warm solid cage of his arms like he did yesterday, silently beg him to accept the mess he is, all his flaws and fissures and mistakes, his stunted growth, his fears, his disgust. 

Lightning is also realizing that he _hates_ being away from Doc at night. It’s fine when they're back home in Radiator Springs, but on the road, in strange cities, in shared hotel rooms…he wants his company, and he wants it for _himself_. It’s a terrible paradox to face, that the person he craves, the person he needs close by to sleep, is the _same_ person whose sex life makes him nauseated, forces him to drink and crumble and curse and fracture. But he _misses him,_ he misses him so fucking badly that he can’t _think_. He left him to that room so he could call whatever guy he had over _back,_ but Lightning doesn't actually _want_ that. He wants Doc (who should _hate_ him, who shouldbe disgusted with him in return) to storm up the hall and _find_ him, call him out or else…beg him to come back. Maybe he can’t sleep, either. 

Of course, Doc doesn’t come. He has better shit to do than entertain the fucked up, nonsensical whims of a straight, idiot friend. Not even friend, _mentee._

Lightning finds the Titos in the minibar again and curls up in bed miserably, knees drawn to his chest. One tiny bottle in, he calls Mater. 

“Sorry,” he slurs as soon as he picks up. “It’s the middle of the night, I know.” 

“Aw, shoot, you know m’here whenever you need me,” Mater says easily. “How’s San-Fran-Cees-Co? You making good use of that fancy training center’n’all them horns and whistles?” 

“It’s good, I guess, training center’s nice,” Lightning grumbles, thinking of all the hot gay guys here in this city and how annoying it is that Doc would rather spend time with _them_ than _him. “_ I sort of called you to talk about something specific, though.”

“Oh, yeah?!” Mater asks, voice crackling over the phone because he always talks too close to it, keeping it crunched between his cheek and shoulder while he bustles around his garage doing shit with his hands because Mater’s the sort of guy who never stops tinkering. “What sorta thing? You got a question about a car? Oh, wait, you said specific, so, hmmm, a car _buretor_? Engine? Transmission acting up?” 

“Nah, not a car question, it’s just...m’being an asshole, and I can’t stop,” Lightning admits, swigging the last dredges of vodka from the tiny bottle, the meager drops bitter and grossly warm as they fall onto his tongue. 

“McQueen, I may be dumb, but I ain’t got an asshole for a best friend,” Mater argues. 

“You’re not dumb,” Lightning argues back. 

“See?! You’re lookin’ to make me feel better about myself already. No asshole would do that. Now tell me what you’re all knotted up about n’gettin’ drunk over,” Mater announces reproachfully, because he can always tell when Lightning’s been drinking. He sighs, chewing his lips, wondering how the fuck one even _broaches_ a subject like this. His stomach hurts, his throat is tight, and even the vodka hasn't loosened the fist of pain in his chest enough for the words to flow freely. 

“Okay, fuck...I hate this, like, I hate it so much, and I wish it wasn't true, but…basically, Doc went out with a guy a few nights ago and brought another guy home today, and I fucking freaked out over it? Like, I want _so badly_ to be open-minded and nonjudgmental like you, like _everyone_ in town, but I just...I can’t handle it. The idea of Doc going out on dates with guys and _especially_ , like, that it was two different guys, and, like, the thought of him having sex with them. Ugh, god, even just _saying_ that aloud makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I fucking _hate myself_ for that.” 

“Aw, McQueen, don’t hate yourself. We all got them things we want to be fine with but aren’t because they’re new or scary, which makes it seem gross. You’re not a bad _person_ for feeling this way. S’not like you hate gay people, heck, it don’t even sound to me like you’re mad about this cuz Doc’s gay. Sounds like a whole different problem.” 

“What do you mean, what _else_ could it be?” Lightning whines, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the overly crisp pillow on his bed that he hasn't broken in yet. He misses his _other_ pillow, his other _bed._ He misses Doc. “I can’t think of any _other_ reason.” 

“Well, to me, it just sounds like you’re jealous,” Mater says matter-of-factly. 

Lightning makes a face. “Jealous? What, you think m’jealous because he’s getting laid? I could pick up a girl if I wanted to, it’s not that, it’s not like—“

“No, no, no, not jealous _of_ Doc, I mean jealous of those guys!” he interrupts. 

Lightning’s stomach gathers and tenses defensively, his mouth suddenly dry, heart pounding. This is such an implausible, ridiculous suggestion, and he _should_ just dismiss it, _laugh,_ even, but he _can’t._ It feels oddly familiar, like something that crossed his mind when he was wasted on Titos two days ago, spiraling into madness, and he deliberately buried it because it was too painful or unlikely or just _upsetting_ to think about. “You think I ...what are you saying? That I want—,” he stops, chokes, because he _can’t_ say it, can’t even _think_ it. He reels back, getting ready to defend himself, to compile all the reasons why what Mater just said is _crazy,_ even if he can’t think of a single one right now. 

“Oh, not that you want to _be_ one of them guys, necessarily. Just that you’re used to havin’ all Doc’s attention all the time when y’all go to them fancy hotels for races and whatnot, but he’s spending time with other folks, and you’re feelin’ sorta lonely.”

Lightning deflates a little, the fight draining out of him. It’s not worth arguing with Mater, who’s usually right unless he’s so wrong, it’s laughable. He’s not sure where this one falls yet. “Maybe. I mean, I can’t sleep, and I hate watching TV alone. And we usually do that together.” 

“Well, why don't you find somethin’ on TV to watch, and if it ain’t on one of them crazy stations you gotta pay the big bucks for, I can find it here on my TV, and we can watch it together so you’re not sittin’ there all sad about how Doc’s got all these boyfriends.” 

Lightning pouts and scrubs a hand through his hair. Part of him really wants to take Mater up on the offer. Getting drunk while watching some shitty sitcom rerun with his best friend sounds like the best way to be stupid and avoidant, but deep in this heart of hearts, he _knows_ he has to at least apologize to Doc first. If this really _is_ born from some weird, petty jealousy where he secretly can’t stand living if he’s not monopolizing all of Doc’s time, he's got to _tell_ him. He can’t just let Doc think he’s a raging homophobe, even if he’s _acting_ like one. He’s got to explain himself, own up to his behavior, admit that he’s being unfair and he’s gonna work on it, acknowledge that Doc can fuck ten guys in one day and it still won't be any of Lightning’s business, and he _knows_ it. So he takes a deep breath, stares at the ceiling, and says, “Thanks, buddy. Wish I could, but I think I should say sorry to Doc first. I feel really...yeah. No one should be treated the way I just treated him.” 

“You do what you need to do, McQueen, but if that don’t work out for you and you still can’t sleep, call me up, and I’ll stay awake with you.” 

“You’re a good friend, Mater.” 

“And so are you...don't let them voices in your head tell you otherwise.” 

—-

Lightning’s hands are shaking when he finally sucks it up enough to walk down the hallway to Doc’s room (which used to be _their_ room). He’s fully aware that there might be a _do not disturb_ sign outside, that Doc might be _occupied_ with the young guy he saw earlier _._ Still, he forces himself to keep going, even when he wants to turn back, even when the nausea and anxiety spike in his gut, making him dizzy. There’s no sign, but he stands outside for a moment to catch his breath and listen for suspicious sounds anyway, fucking _vibrating_ like he drank a shit-ton of caffeine. After a bout of silence, he eventually knocks, but there’s no reply, so he knocks again. “Hey, Doc? It’s me. I owe you an apology.” 

He hears him shuffle across the room, undo the chain latch with careful hands, and push the door open a few inches. His eyes are sharp and blue and unreadable, and Lightning’s heart starts to pound in his throat. “Um, can I come in, or do you have someone over?” 

“M’alone,” Doc says curtly, opening the door wider and gesturing for Lightning to follow him. He’s holding a hotel glass of what appears to be whiskey, maybe brandy. Some hard brown liquor, which is surprising because he usually only drinks beer when they’re doing anything other than celebrating a win. He sits down on the couch, and Lightning forces himself to do the same, even though he’s painfully, horribly aware of what happened or _nearly_ happened here earlier today. 

He kicks off his Nike sandals and gathers his legs under him gingerly, eyes fixed on his own lap since Doc is too hard to look at right now. “M’sorry I freaked out.” He expects a bitter, _yeah, me, too,_ or maybe something more self-deprecating, like, _told you it’s not the first time, kid,_ but Doc is silent, seemingly studying his half-empty glass, which he’s resting on his knee with a tilt. Lightning inhales unsteadily and continues. “I thought about it, why I keep doing this, why it...why it, like, upsets me so much, and, _yeah,_ I’m sure there’s some ugly, knee-jerk, grossed-out thing that’s happening, but also I guess some part of me is, like, stupidly sad? When you choose to spend time with someone who isn’t me, I mean.” Lightning chances a sharp, aborted look in Doc’s direction and is surprised to find him smiling. It’s a small, barely-there smile, just the ghost of one, but it’s warm all the same, and that calms him down a little. “You’re not mad?” 

“M’not mad,” he murmurs, thumbing at the thick rim of his glass before pressing it to his chin thoughtfully. “But you gotta understand. I can’t spend all my time with you, Lightning,” he eventually adds. 

“I know, and I don’t actually expect you to,” he mumbles, wishing _he_ had some liquor, wondering where the bottle is, where Doc got it, _when. “_ I know it’s stupid and unfair, like, of course you wanna get _laid,_ I respect that. I just...I get lonely and m’selfish and everyone else is coupled up, and I...I dunno. It’s none of my business, though, and I don’t _actually_ judge you for whatever you do. You could have a fucking orgy if you wanted to, and it would be your right. So just, you know, ignore me and my bullshit.” 

Doc shakes his head and murmurs, “I can’t,” almost to himself more than Lightning, so quietly that Lightning wonders if he imagined it, fashioned it from a wordless exhale. Then Doc throws what’s left of his glass back and shudders before setting it on the coffee table. “You want to know something?” he asks, gaze flashing, pupils so black and wet-looking that Lightning imagines getting stuck in them like those tarpits in LA. 

“What?” he breathes, skin prickling with a sudden wave of nervous sweat. 

“You’re right. Messing ‘round with back-to-back strangers isn't how I usually go about this sort of thing. I was just...was just looking for something, I guess,” he admits quietly, voice low, scraping, careful. 

Lightning’s stomach drops, and he thinks of the young man he saw scramble out of here earlier today, his narrow ribcage, his sandy blond hair. “Um,” he says, swallowing, dry-mouthed. “Did you find it?” 

“No,” Doc answers, flattening his lips out before smiling. It’s not a real smile, though, it’s stretched tight, it _hurts. “_ The first night, we didn't do anything but have a few drinks...as soon as it started to turn into something more than that, I figured out I wasn't up for it. He let me have his couch for the night, though, nice guy. And I thought maybe it was just him, so I went out looking, again, but that other boy...it didn’t go past what you saw, either. I’m in San Francisco, with so many more fucking options than I know what to do with, and I can’t seem to make any of them work.” 

The blood is pounding so loudly in Lightning’s ears that he can hardly hear himself when he asks, “Why?” Even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. Even though he's _scared_ to hear it. 

Doc licks his lips, crosses his arms, and looks at him for a long time. “You tell me.” 

Lightning doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he does, deep down, under layers and layers of fear and confusion, but he can’t even _begin_ to unpack all that now. He’s too tied up; he wants _Doc_ to just say it, to spell it out for him so he doesn’t have to feel like he’s stupid anymore, like he’s always three steps behind. The loaded silence stretches on between them, Doc’s gaze searching, sizzling, like there’s a fire reflecting in the ice of his irises. 

Finally, it falters, his mouth twitches, and he turns away before standing up. “Anyway,” he sighs. “It’s good you got your own room. For the best, probably.” 

“Wait, what?! No, no, no, it’s not,” Lightning interjects, stumbling through his words as he clumsily stands, following Doc around the room like some aimless, waiting-to-be-kicked puppy. “I want to _cancel_ the room, I don’t wanna sleep alone! You can...you can bring back guys if you want, just, like, do it early so I don't have to _know_ about it. Just don’t make me sleep without you, okay?” 

Suddenly, the veneer of calm cracks, and Doc rounds on him, rising to his full height, his stance fierce and broad and intimidating. Lightning has only seen him do this twice before: the first was when he challenged him to a race, and the second was in his garage only days later, when Lightning asked him why he quit racing at the top of his game. It catches him off guard now, and he stumbles, thinking they were _past_ this, past those moments when he realizes with stark, stunning clarity how _little_ he knows in the face of Doc’s decades of knowledge, long-simmered in pain. “Do you hear yourself, boy? Do you know how you sound?” he asks, low and dangerous. 

Lightning withers. “I _know,”_ he answers shamefully, the dam inside him cracking at the timber of Doc’s voice. He feels an impossible rush of words rising in his throat like bile, messy and out of control. “I _know_ I sound like a fucking homophobe, like the _worst_ sort of guy! I’m working on it, I really _am_ doing my fucking best, but right now, m’exhausted and I can’t stand another night _not sleeping_ and racing like shit because all I can do without you is lie in bed, getting _drunk_ so I don’t have to think about other guys feeling your mustache on their _neck_ when you _kiss them there!”_

The words hang, dirty and scrubbed raw in the air between them. 

Doc’s eyes flash as his mouth falls open, and Lightning’s face is so fucking hot that he thinks he might pass out, melt into the carpet like this afternoon’s spilled ice. All he can feel is the way his skin is burning, his heart pounding in his chest and cutting off his air as Doc strides toward him, grabs him by the elbows, and backs him up against the wall so hard that he gasps. 

“You are _so_ fucking stupid sometimes,” he grinds out, grip biting into Lightning’s biceps. His breath his hot and smells like bourbon, and Lightning sways as he sucks a frantic lungful in. He thinks Doc is going to say something else because he inhales sharply, but instead he ducks down and presses his burning mouth to Lightning’s neck, brief and rough and wet. His mustache scrapes against Lightning’s thundering pulse, and he thinks, _oh._

_Oh, god. Fuck._

Doc pulls away panting and growls, “That? That's what you're thinking about? Well, there it is...you gonna fucking hit me now? You gonna throw up? You wanna ask me why I can’t fuck other men?” 

Lightning’s gasping, surging into Doc’s touch like it’s what he’s needed this whole fucking time, thinking, _oh, god. “_ Why...why can’t you?” he asks, even though he knows now in the way broken bones anticipate an oncoming storm, a cold snap. His voice is coming out reedy with breath, but he _knows._

“Because I can’t touch...can’t even _look_ at any of them without wishing they were you so hard that my heart breaks,” Doc confesses, voice nothing more than a boozy, blood-stained rasp. “There you go.” 

Lightning crumples, forehead pressing into Doc’s solid shoulder, hands leaving their terrified, frozen lock between their bodies to spread over Doc’s stomach, up to his chest. “M’sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” he huffs out, fingers trembling as they touch, feeling Doc’s chest hair through his shirt like a revelation. He wants him to kiss his neck again so badly that the whole of him, every cell and nerve and breath, is aching for it, _yearning._ He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything in his life so badly. Not Dinoco, not a Piston Cup, not to come back to Radiator Springs and set all that aside. _“_ I...I hated when you were with them because I wanted you to be with _me_ ,” he admits, to Doc at the same time he admits it to himself, the strange, terrifying relief of the truth shuddering through him. “I was jealous.” 

Doc unglues his hand from where it’s braced against the wall behind him and carefully, carefully lays it on the back of his neck, smoothes it up through his hair experimentally. The touch is so gentle and uncertain that Lightning wants to cry, so he tilts back into it, coming up starry-eyed and hazy. “I know, kid,” Doc whispers softly, cupping his cheek with the other hand, thumbing into the bruise-dark half-circle beneath his eye. “Just wasn't sure you did.” 

Then he drags him in to kiss, and Lightning opens his mouth instinctually, _gratefully,_ to let in the flood. 

_Oh._

—-

Doc _is_ a good kisser, just like Lightning fucking _knew_ he would be. He's _so_ good _, too_ good, even, so much so that his knees buckle, his stomach won’t stop flipping over, and he’s worried he’ll lose his balance and fall to the carpet. Doc holds him up, though, pushing him against the solidity of the wall and holding him there, his kisses sweet and deep and hungry, swallowing Lightning’s every stunned groan. 

It’s the first time Lightning’s ever kissed someone with facial hair, but maybe it’s what he’s needed all along, the key to uncovering that kissing isn’t too-wet and sort of boring, because he’s _into it_ in a way that he’s never been _into_ kissing before. He’s totally consumed, cannot get enough, where _usually_ he's going through the motions, wondering when he’s gonna get to the good part, always racing. Or maybe it’s not the facial hair, the insistent scrape rubbing his lips raw enough that he can’t forget he’s capable of bleeding. Maybe it’s the fact that he _loves_ Doc, the fact that he feels safe in his arms and always has, that he wants to crawl inside his ribcage, that he’s only _now_ realizing this is what he wanted all along, when he felt so lost at sea. He kisses and kisses, so fucking hungry for Doc’s lips, his spit, the way he holds Lightning’s jaw steady between his thumb and forefinger and licks into his mouth. At some point, he pulls away to mouth down his neck instead, sucking at his throat in hungry pulses while Lightning keens, throws his head back so that it thunks against the wall, and says, “ _God,_ fuck. Can we...can we go to bed? My knees are gonna give out.” 

Doc rumbles against his collarbone and steers him to the closest of the two beds, laying him down easily with his skull cradled in a palm like he’s done this so many times before. And he probably _has._ Lightning is _not_ the first boy who’s been overwhelmed to the point of tears under Doc Hudson’s mouth, he's sure of it. He’s one of many, one of one hundred lucky, longing men, scattered through the country like chaff, perhaps forgotten. “Am I...am I doing good? I have no fucking idea what m’doing right now, so—”

Doc cuts him off with the most tender kiss, fingers sifting through his hair. “Everything about you is perfect,” he praises as he pulls away, breath a whisper against the corner of Lightning’s mouth. “You just lie there, let me take care of you.” 

Lightning melts into the certainty of that statement, lets himself be kissed, lets Doc push his hand up the front of his shirt and thumb over his nipples until they're stiff and sensitive under the shift of cotton. He’s _hard,_ has been since Doc put him up against the wall and pressed his mouth to his neck, so he throws a leg over Doc’s side so that he can push into him, _show_ him. “Jesus,” he whines as Doc grabs his thigh, arranges him just _so,_ their hips grinding together flush and hot and rough. Doc’s big hand is spread wide and spans the whole of his hamstring, and he feels so _contained,_ like Doc can move him however he wants him, set him up just right. “How the _fuck_ is this so good? How are you—”

“What, you think I don’t know how to touch a boy? Make him come in his pants?” Doc taunts, low and hot against his ear while he palms up his thigh, dangerously close to his cock. “M’I going too fast?” he asks then, kneading the muscle there, thumb ghosting over the inner seam of Lightning’s sweats. “You gotta let me know...I’ll get carried away with you, kid. I’ve been wanting you too long, can’t think.” 

Lightning feels like he’s gonna hyperventilate, like his lungs won’t expand all the way, like he’s seeing _stars_ , but he doesn’t _care,_ he doesn’t want Doc to stop. He’s saying all the shit that he’s _wanted_ him to say, even if he didn't realize he wanted to hear it, even if he didn't know _this_ was the thing he was craving all along. Now that he _does_ know, it can’t come quickly enough, he can’t drown deeply enough in the mad swell of it. He’s so fucking _relieved_ to finally understand, and more importantly, to be able to give Doc what he _wants_ instead of just fucking things up more. “You’re _not_ going too fast,” he promises him, grabbing Doc’s hand and pushing it between his own thighs, gasping at the heat of his palm as he rubs reverently over his cock, teasing it through tented sweatpants, sweet and gentle. “How long? Have you wanted me, I mean?” he asks, stunned to find himself hoping that it’s been awhile, that he hasn’t had to live very long _not_ being the most important boy in Doc’s life. 

Doc huffs out a breathy laugh before he kisses Lightning’s shoulder, his collarbone, his bobbing, stubble-rough Adam’s apple. “Hell, since I saw you on TV, at least. Only became unbearable when I found out you were as sweet as you are cocky’n’pretty.” 

Lightning’s heart clenches. He’s _moved_ to know that Doc’s thought of him this way for so long;it makes him feel secure and cared for and _hot_ all over, like he’s something worth touching. “You think m’sweet?” he asks then, pushing his nose into Doc’s cheek, letting his eyelashes flutter closed against the skin there. 

“As sugar,” Doc tells him, rubbing his cock through his sweats, feeling out the length and squeezing, so sure and firm and _good_ that it makes Lightning white out right there against the sheets. “You were so worried about doing wrong by me that you didn’t even realize what you wanted. Always trying to do the right thing.” 

Lightning whines, bucking up into the solid, steady pressure of Doc’s hand. He wants to be touched under his clothes desperately, but he also knows he’ll come if that happens; he’s so insanely close just from being kissed, Doc’s touch tender and sweet and teasing over two layers of fabric, Doc’s breath hot against his neck, his blue eyes like fire. “How...how did _you_ know, before I did? What gave me away?” 

Doc is quiet for a moment, fixated on pushing Lightning’s shirt up his chest so that he can kiss the soft blond hairs on his sternum, mouth open and searching over his heartbeat, tongue wet as he flicks it over Lightning’s nipples. When he pulls away, there’s spit shining on the gold of his skin, and Lightning has to close his eyes in overwhelm, shuddering as his lashes sweep his cheek. He didn't know that guys could have their nipples sucked, he didn’t _know_ that it was something he needed, the nervy pang of it, the tenderness. There are so many things he's only just finding out. “I didn’t know, at first,” Doc tells him, squeezing Lightning’s cock through his clothes, making him jump, thrust into nothing. “I kept thinking…m’ exactly what he thinks I am. The dirty, predatory old man who wants him so badly that he’s scared to share a room with me. But then you weren’t acting like you were scared. You were acting like your heart was broken. And, well...I know how that feels.” 

His hand is moving steadily and solidly now, actually jacking Lightning off instead of just aimlessly feeling him up, and Lightning wishes he could hold on, but it feels _too_ fucking good, making static of his vision on every upstroke. That combined with the aching _truth_ of Doc’s words pushes him over the edge, and he yelps, extends his throat, and lets go. Doc’s breath catches and his hand stills, but then he recovers and touches him through it, kisses his throat, rubs him through the twitches and bucks. “Jesus,” he whispers, shaking his head as Lightning shivers in a hazy mess, seeing stars, body lurching in aftershocks. “So fast, baby, so easy for me.” 

“Fuck,” Lightning chokes, mouth open and panting even as Doc leans down to bite it, suck his lower lip. “ _Jesus,_ m’sorry, it’s just so...it’s what _I’ve_ wanted for a long time, too,” he confesses, thinking of all the months leading up to this, orbiting steadily closer to Doc, always wanting more from him than ever seemed reasonable, of any man to want from another. But now he knows. He knows that it wasn’t rocket science or buried hate, it was something simple and old and common, like love. “The rest of me is still just...catching up.” 

“Love that you need it so badly, _god,_ you’re even more gorgeous when you come,” Doc groans, breath coming out hot and fast, hand sweat-damp as he rubs it up over the hair beneath Lightning’s navel. “Can I touch you under these?” he asks gently, hooking an index finger into the waistband of his sweats. 

“Yeah, of course, _please,”_ Lightning whimpers, spreading his thighs wider to accommodate Doc’s hand as he pushes it in to feel him, to rub over his still-switching, still-half-hard cock, his motions tentative and awed. It’s so sharp and sensational that Lightning gasps, but it’s not too much, it’s just the right amount of care and pressure that it still feels so fucking _good._ “You can...m’ _yours,_ Doc, do whatever you want.” 

He’s still catching his breath as Doc collects his load from inside his briefs, hot and sticky, but then Doc’s withdrawing so that he can shove his hand down his _own_ PJ bottoms, curling those wet fingers around his _own_ cock, coating himself in Lightning’s come like this is a fucking _thing_ people do, like Lightning is supposed to survive any of this. The way that Doc touches him, looks at him, it changes everything. It’s so fucking _much_ that it makes Lightning’s heart stop, his stomach plummet, his eyes sting wetly as he blinks. He watches for a few minutes, slack-jawed and stunned, while Doc’s eyes climb all over him, from his face to his heaving chest, shining in sweat. “You really are the prettiest, sweetest thing I've ever seen,” he marvels, cupping Lightning’s face with his free hand to kiss him, deep and suffocating. 

Lightning’s about to get lost in all the stars in his eyes when Doc pulls back, gasping, forearm flexing as he touches himself, clearly close. He’s hypnotized by the movement for a few seconds before he comes to his senses and realizes that he wants _in. “_ Hey,” he murmurs, reaching, tugging at Doc’s waistband curiously. “Can I help?” 

Doc chokes out a breathless laugh and tugs the elastic below his balls, letting Lightning see the whole thick, glorious girth of him, the red flash of his cockhead over the top of his fist each time he slides it down. “You can touch, but it’s okay if you wanna just watch.” 

“Shit,” Lightning moans, mouth watering, breath tight in his chest. He’s never seen Doc so exposed, so _compromised,_ and it’s got him trembling. He wants _more,_ he wants to see him come apart, wants to be the thing that does it. “You know, the idea of you getting your cock sucked isn’t so awful to think about when _I’m_ the one doing it and not some random guy in San Francisco. I’d do a better job anyway, promise,” he explains, and Doc makes a wordless sound at it, eyes fluttering closed, fist going faster. There’s a tremor to Lightning’s fingers as he reaches out, touches the back of Doc’s rapidly moving hand before he touches anything else. “I want to.” 

“Fuck,” Doc rasps, cock twitching visibly. “Next time, baby, m’... _fuck,_ m’gonna come for you right now, so close.” 

Lighting curses, shifts his hand, thumbs right over the slit, and Doc comes, the skin on his cock insanely smooth and searingly hot, the ribbons of white even _hotter_ as they land on his wrist. It’s so dirty and good that he can’t even _think,_ he can only lace his fingers through Doc’s and feel his shaft as it flexes and twitches to finish, Doc’s other hand in his hair, the thumb pushing into his mouth. 

He sucks reflexively as they both come down, mouth tasting of salt as Doc pulls out and kisses him instead, and then it tastes like fire and whiskey and _home,_ like nights spent safe and sleeping instead of longing for something more. When Doc pulls away, there are tears blurring Lightning’s vision as he blinks. “Wow,” he murmurs, licking his swollen lips. “I was so stupid.” 

“Yeah,” Doc grins, pulling him closer, slotting their legs up, everything fitting together so perfectly and easily that Lightning feels like he was _made_ to be held like this. “But it’s okay, ‘cuz I’m old, so I can see through stupid.” 

Lightning smiles and sniffles, pressing his cheek to Doc’s heartbeat. As he listens to it slow into something steady again, he thinks about the last few days, the incredible storm of feeling, of panic. It’s nice to have weathered it and come out on the other side. “Was I good?” he asks as his eyes start to get heavy, lulled dangerously close to sleep by the way Doc is petting his back, his hair, every motion so intentional and tender, like he’s mapping the topography of his skin. “Better than those other guys?” 

“Sweetheart,” Doc rasps, kissing the top of his head. “I only found them because I thought maybe they’d help me stop being so hung up on you. Guess we were both acting stupid.”

“Don’t get over me,” Lighting murmurs, smiling wild and warm into Doc’s sternum. “Still got so much stuff to learn...need you to teach me.” 

Doc presses him close. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll whip you into shape. Spend the rest of my life making sure Lightning McQueen is the best boy in racing. And other stuff.” 

Lightning hides his grin in the ditch between Doc’s pectorals and finally feels like he’s on the right track. 

—-

 

 

 


End file.
